


Look out, look out

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, I'm probably being quite mean to john, Kinkmeme, Oops, Prompt Fic, Protective!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how it is... you're bored, there's no inspiration, so onto the kinkmeme you go.<br/>Here's a fill I did not too long ago. :D</p><p>Original prompt:</p><p>During an investigation, it is mentioned that John was in Afghanistan. An individual that Sherlock was questioning lets loose on John. Calling him all manner of names and humiliating him. John ignores it all but begins to limp away. This prompts the person to become even more cruel. The person corners John and punches him, breaking his nose and splitting his lip. John still does nothing, as he is frozen and begins to have and attack of PTSD.</p><p>That is the exact moment Sherlock walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look out, look out

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's not quite what was specified, but I hope it's fairly good all the same.  
> Also, it's all cleaned up and pretty now!

**OP and original fill is[here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=102108751#t102108751) ** **  
**

  
  
He could already tell that this was going to be a bad one. The man whom the two were going to be questioning, a 'Kyle Smith', had simply sneered when Sherlock had walked up to him, snatching the proffered notes from his grip. In the course of Sherlock's informal interrogation, he'd proceeded to insult almost everyone in existence, from blacks to gays to 'ruddy psychopaths.'

John could feel Sherlock tense up, irritated at the blasé use of the label which had followed him since childhood. He quickly put a gentle but restraining hand on his arm, shaking his head slightly at his friend.

"Where was Hester Tommlins at that time, then?" He asked, trying to change the subject quickly. Smith frowned, but answered the question.

John tuned out for a few moments, pulling his coat closer to him against the chill wind. Had this really needed to be done in an empty alleyway? But then Smith's next remark pulled his mental grumblings up short.

"Yeah, some stupid soldier. Bloody bastards; murderers, the lot of them. Half of them deserve to be shot."

John froze, hands clenching into fists at the sheer WRONG of this statement: he had known good, honest men who'd _died_ in the course of their duty, and now this _idiot_  was degrading that sacrifice...

Sherlock gave him a warning look. John nodded stiffly, forcing himself to relax. He stopped listening, ignoring Smith's spiteful sniping and insults.  
  
A minute later, he was brought back to himself by Sherlock's delighted cry of "Oh! That's _brilliant!_ " and the echo of retreating footsteps.  
  
"Oh, for..." John bit out, starting to walk after his idiot flatmate, limping slightly, as his limp tended to make a reappearance during times of stress. Smith called out to him, though, and he stopped.

"I just noticed... before, when we were talking about soldiers." Kyle started, eyes narrowed and a predatory grin on his face. "You seemed a little _tense_. Now, why would that be?"

John frowned, taking a step back. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just interested."

"Well, I'm afraid that that's really none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me?" John told him shortly. 

"No, wait... were you a soldier? Is that it?" 

John gritted his teeth, wanting nothing to end this conversation as quickly as possible. "If you must know, then yes. I served in Afghanistan."

Smith laughed, his voice full of scorn. "I didn't think that even the Freak would associate with you bastards! How many people have you shot to pieces, you murdering scum?"

John blinked in disbelief, because did he _really_ just insult him to his face?  
  
"Stuck for words? Didn't realise it would be quite that many, how come you're still here then? We sure as hell don't want your type over here!"  
  
John stared in disbelief, then collected himself. He needed to get back to Sherlock, away from this bigoted /idiot/. Not bothering to respond, he began to limp away.  
  
This prompted a vicious laugh from the other man. "Oh, so they _broke_ you, is that it? Not even any good at killing people, huh?" he taunted, stepping in front of John. He shoved him in the chest, knocking the veteran back a step. "Fucking _cripple_ , aren't you? Too _damaged_ to be any good to them. Too bad, huh?" he spat.  
  
John was frozen, numb with disbelief at the sheer hate and scorn in Smith's voice. He was shoved again, stumbling backwards until his back was against the wall and Smith was looming over him, hurling abuse. He could barely hear him, only the occasional word or phrase leaking through.  
  
Cripple.  
Nazi.   
Freak.  
Son of a bitch.  
Scum.  
Reject.  
Murderer.  
  
Smith spat in his face, features twisted in contempt. John could only stare in disbelief.  
  
The first blow happened in slow motion, Smith's fist moving towards him, while he watched helplessly. He heard a crunch as pain shot through him: nose broken, at least. More strikes followed, and he felt blood trickling down his face. All the air was pushed out of him with a first to he stomach, and the alley faded away.  
  
Sand, stained red with blood.  
  
Gunfire.  
  
Explosions.  
  
screaming. God, the screaming.  
  
Unbearable pain, and a muffled shout: " _ **WATSON!**_ "  
  
He could feel himself shaking, feel himself fading away until all that was left was fire, pain and the echo of a name.  
  
*****  
  
Suddenly the alleyway is back with a vengeance, cold and damp replacing the burning heat of Afghanistan. The pain is different, too; less intense than before, but fresher, newer.  
  
"John!"  
  
He starts, turning at the same moment as Smith; just in time to see him being hauled off John and slammed into the wall. Sherlock moved back over to John, crouching down beside him.  
  
"John? Are you ok?" he asked. His grey-eyed gaze was as intense as ever, but there was something else there, too. Could it be... concern?   
  
John managed a weak smile and nodded. "I'll be fine," he told him.  
  
Sherlock's gaze hardened as he look down at the cowering Smith - not quite so brave with somebody who could hit back - and he stood. "If you ever so much as come near us again, I will have you robbed blind, beaten to pulp and left in the gutter. Do you understand me?" he asked, loathing filling his voice.  
  
Within moments Smith was up and sprinting for the exit. Sherlock turned back to John. "It appears that he does," he murmured. He helped John up gently, trying to avoid jostling him. "Lets get you to a hospital to have that looked at."  
  
John let himself be led away, and as he did so he remembered something he'd once told Sherlock:  
  
"Friends protect you."  
  
He'd never been more glad to be proven right.


End file.
